Two days till
by XxAnime girlxX7
Summary: First Fanfic EVER    Disclaim I dont own Death note or characters    Review for ides and tips? please


In the passenger's seat, Mello sits crumpled up in cargo pants and one of Matt's sweaters – the one with the hole in the left elbow and the torn collar – and his eyes are fixed out the window, electric blue and too-alive. Curled up as he is, Matt thinks he looks real small, real tiny, as if he could fold the guy up into a little ball and tuck him into his cigarette carton to set alight when he wants something to burn; but even right now, far away from the fire but cradled in a bright shell of early morning sunlight, Mello burns all on his own, just like always.

Matt kind of thinks he's stunning, really. He feels a little queer thinking that, and maybe he is for it, but it makes sense in his head – Mello's the only person in the world that could look sleepy enough to crash for a hundred years straight but capable of tearing down a city with his teeth beforehand. He's brilliant and blazing with all the hard, ragged lines of him, and yet there's a softness, an inverted grace about him that Matt has always found sort of, well, _cool. _Just damn cool, that's what it is.

They're parked in an empty lot outside the city borders, and Matt wonders if this is what Mello meant when he said he needed to escape for a little while. After all, Matt's the kind of guy that solves his agonies, however passive and diluted they are, with a car ride and a cigarette, maybe a cup of coffee or a shot of rum for good measure. He wishes the radio were on, though. He gets nervous whenever it gets too quiet, especially during these past few days, because he can't help but wonder if Mello's contemplating things like coffins and ashes when he has too much silence to fill with thought. It makes Matt want to clang pots and pans together or beat on the walls just to create some noise, if not for himself, then at least for Mello.

Actually, yeah – _always_ for Mello.

Burrowing his hands into the sleeves of his secondhand sweater, Mello bows his head until his forehead rests atop his knee, blond hair coming loose out of its small ponytail and fanning over his cheeks. His breath puffs out onto the cold air in shallow little clouds that dissipate within the moment of their birth; Matt's stricken with the urge to catch each one in his fist and pocket them for safekeeping with the stupid thought of, _Well, I don't know, man, you might need them someday or something. Just hear me out, will you? I promise I won't take long, and I'll shut up as soon as I can. But hear me out, Mel. Just for a minute. _

But then again, Matt knows that isn't needed. Hell, it probably isn't even _true_. He knows what's happening to them, what's _going_ to happen to them in a few more sundowns. He knows with the same stark clarity that he keeps on the backburner for the sake of his passive calm; because in spite of his carelessness, his indifference, his reckless charm that isn't as violent or dangerous as Mello's but just as self-destructive, Matt _isn't stupid. _He walked into this with his eyes clear and his heart set. There's no confusion. There never was.

Somehow, though, that makes it hurt just a little bit more. Watching Mello's breath puff out and curl on the air like the feathery skirts of a ghost, Matt realizes for the first time in his life that he wants to save him from this whole mess, wants to hold him in this moment and keep him in one piece before everything crashes and melts into oblivion. It's all he's ever wanted to do. It's why he's _here_, with Mello, with this rising chill in his chest as he contemplates reaching over and touching the guy's shoulder, maybe ruffling his hair or something just as silly but honest all the same.

But that thought is suddenly put on hold when Mello lifts his head a fraction and murmurs, "Think I'm good now."

"Wanna go home?" _Home._ Why does Matt feel like the world's biggest tosser when he calls that urn of an apartment something like that?

Mello's bright eyes flit to the side for a moment, locking onto Matt's with a look he can't place. Is he lonely? Sad? Scared? Every feeling that Matt knows Mello insists on swallowing down like a shot of something caustic and bitter seems to be all too apparent right now, blending into one shade of darkness that's both all too natural on Mello's face and yet completely foreign. Now isn't the time to be scared, not when everything is riding on these last two days; but shit, isn't Matt just as scared? Scared _shitless_, even. He can't help it. He's just a _kid_.

Mello's sigh is a winded, lost thing that ghosts out on another white wisp, escaping through the crack in the dashboard. He rests his cheek on his folded arm and closes his eyes again. "Yeah," he breathes out, "I wanna go home."

_Don't we all_, Matt doesn't say as he nods and reaches for the key to restart the car. With a twist of his wrist, the car jerks back to life, engine revving and heat kicking out from the vent. Out the corner of his eye, Matt sees Mello tuck a strand of hair behind his ear and turn to look out the window, and he's never been so grateful for some shitty song on the radio in his life.


End file.
